


The Adventure of the House of Usher

by thecheeseburgercat



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, The Fall of the House of Usher - Edgar Allan Poe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Case Fic, Crossover, Gen, Gothic, Horror, Mystery, POV John Watson, Victorian, this was a school assignment but we're posting anyways
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:53:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25662397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecheeseburgercat/pseuds/thecheeseburgercat
Summary: It is 1894, and Sherlock and Watson receive a curious letter from an old friend. Sherlock has always operated based on logic, but the House of Usher seems to operate on the supernatural...
Comments: 3
Kudos: 4





	The Adventure of the House of Usher

My friend Sherlock Holmes and I were spending a pleasant afternoon together when a most peculiar letter arrived, peculiar even by the standards of letter Holmes was used to receiving. It was ’94, and Sherlock had only just returned from the dreadful self-imposed exile. 

“Aha! My dear Watson, do take a look at this, I believe we have found a new case to solve. Oh, I am excited, it has been far too long!” Sherlock remarked, handing me the letter. 

“Do you believe it is wise to set off on another perilous journey so soon?” I asked. I skimmed the letter and it became clear why Sherlock is so excited: it was from Roderick Usher, heir to the House of Usher, and a companion of Sherlock from their boyhood days. 

“Perilous? Why Watson, we’ve escaped dire situations before…and you see, he blames the supernatural! He says here “A most haunted house this is, I am convinced it is the cause of my malady.” Well that can’t be, there must be a logical reason behind his troubles. I am determined to sniff it out!”

When we arrived at the House of Usher, I confess I was awe-struck. The house lay among a desolate landscape, with decaying trees and a tarn before the family estate, which itself looked as though it might crumble. Indeed, there was a fissure running down one side of the roof. Gazing down at the tarn, the reflected image of the estate looked twisted and warped. I was hit with an overwhelming sense of malaise and turned to Sherlock.

“Sherlock, do you feel a sense of unease? I have never been in an environment that has set me so on edge,” I said.

“It is a gloomy sight. Not a soul to be seen, no wonder the poor man is feeling disturbed. In all likelihood his own mind is playing tricks on him. Shall we?” Sherlock gestured to the house and we walked up to the grand entrance. 

Upon entering, we were greeted by the sore sight of Roderick Usher himself. He was pale and haggard, and launched into an explanation of his troubles. 

“Sherlock my old friend, I am so glad to see you. Perhaps you and your friend could help us out of this mess…I fear there is something spiritual draining the life out of this house and all its inhabitants!” he exclaimed.

“The inhabitants being solely you and your sister? You mentioned she was not well? My dear friend Watson is a doctor, and he could examine her. I have seen no traces of other inhabitants, which is quite worrisome for my line of work. I do need suspects if I am to catch a culprit.” 

“Not if the culprit is this god-forsaken house. I believe this is one case you shall not be able to solve with your usual methods,” Usher insisted.

A ghostly figure drifted by the entrance hall, a young lady bearing a striking resemblance to Usher. Her wasted form indicated that in the very near future Roderick Usher was to be the sole inhabitant of the house.

“My sister’s condition has puzzled all doctors who have tried to heal her. Perhaps Dr. Watson will have more luck,” said Usher. 

“He is very talented,” replied Sherlock. “Now, have you seen anything concrete that could explain the bizarre happenings of the house? Put away all notions of the supernatural and try to recall anything that could help us start looking for an answer rooted in this world.”

Privately, I thought that Sherlock might have some difficulties with this case. The entire atmosphere felt off, and with no souls on the property beside the Ushers, suspects were scarce. I entered the remote sections of the estate, searching for Madeline. Upon finding her and completing an examination, I too was stumped. It could only be described as a wasting-away, almost like that of advanced consumption, yet the symptoms were not quite right. Puzzled, I went down to dinner with Sherlock and Usher, who had spent the evening combing the estate for any trace of a physical lead. 

The following days passed without much to remark upon. We spent our time poking around the estate, searching for something, anything, that could give us a start on explaining the Usher’s troubles. Nothing turned up, and I could sense Sherlock beginning to become frustrated. To be here for days with still not a clue on where to start was not the usual path of our adventures. I began to believe in what Usher was had been saying all along. This house seemed alive, thrumming with malevolent energy. Madeline drifted by, for all intents and purposes already a spirit. Usher himself was no better off, and even evenings filled with music, Sherlock with his violin and Usher at the guitar, could not lift the omnipresent gloom of the house. 

Late one evening, I found myself stunned at the sight I found. Sherlock was at the dark oak dinner table cradling his head in his hands, a picture of despair I saw so rarely from him. 

“Come now Sherlock! Whatever is the matter?” I asked. 

“We have been here for nigh on a week, Watson. One entire week, and I am no closer to finding a trail to follow. How is one supposed to employ logic and reasoning off of nothing? Off of rumours of the supernatural? Any strange occurrence I point out to Usher is brushed off as being nothing but the house’s influence. It is a house, Watson! A dark and cold house yes, but a house nonetheless! A mere house cannot drive a man mad,” he declared.

“Perhaps you will have to give some credence to Usher’s theories,” I began, though Sherlock tossed his head and said “Nonsense! An investigator who relies on the intangible instead of his senses and logic is no investigator at all. My dear Watson, do not tell me you are beginning to believe the rubbish!”

“I would prefer not to, but Sherlock, surely you have noticed that we are at a dead end. When there is no one to interrogate, no signs of an earthly presence creating this family depression, perhaps we should begin to consider Usher’s word.”

“Ridiculous. There must be something we are missing, some clue, something that could have caused this…and have you made any progress on diagnosing Miss Usher? She seems to be the one physical symptom we can examine.”

I was about to reply when Usher stepped into the room, announcing with no emotion in his voice that Madeline was no more. We expressed shocked condolences, and Usher asked us to help him inter her in the family vault as soon as possible. Upon his departure, I said to Sherlock “Passed on? Why, she looked no worse this morning than all the others! This is most unexpected.”

“And also, our last chance at solving this using reasonable deductive methods. Madeline was the only piece of this insufferable jigsaw we had a chance of solving,” muttered Sherlock. 

The Usher family crypt was dark and damp, even more so than the rest of the estate. Usher hoisted her into the tomb, and Sherlock and I both got a first look at her face. Pale as always, there was a rosy tint in her cheeks and her lips curved upwards in the tiniest smile. As Usher moved to close and screw down the lid, Sherlock cried out “Wait! Do not enclose her just yet! Watson, do you see the rosy glow of her face?”

“Why yes. That is not altogether uncommon in the recently departed.”

“Take into account the set of her lips. By my watch, rigor mortis ought to have set in by now…no, I daresay Miss Usher has not passed. She is in some sort of deep coma. Help me lift her out of the tomb!” 

Usher shook his head in despair, and said “No no, this cannot be! My sister has passed on, she is finally free from the curse of this wretched house…let her rest in peace!” With an extraordinary display of strength, Usher slammed the lid of the coffin down and began hammering it shut at breakneck speed. 

“Usher! My friend, stop this immediately! She will surely perish if you leave her with no airflow! Watson, help me,” exclaimed Sherlock, and we both attempted to wrench Usher away from the coffin. Alas, it was too late, and the unfortunate Madeline was hammered into her prison. Usher threw us off and fled up the stairs to the upper floors of the estate, and we heard the faint crack of thunder as a summer storm started up. 

Sherlock and I bolted up the stairs to find Usher, and found him standing by a window, gazing out at the storm, which was casting the entire landscape in sickly light. 

“Look,” said Sherlock. “It is merely a quirk of an electrical phenomena. Usher, my friend, step away from the window. There is nothing to worry about out there. I believe you should-”

Usher turned to face us, and his usually wan face paled further. I followed his gaze, and oh! What a horrible sight! The lady Madeline of Usher stood before us in bloodied robes. Sherlock whirled around and blanched upon spotting Madeline. Before either of us could react, the lady fell upon her brother and began throttling him. The house itself gave an almighty creak, and I felt the floor shift slightly. 

“Sherlock!” I yelled. “Let us leave this dismal place! The ground itself is throwing us out!” 

But Sherlock was on his knees, trying in vain to separate the siblings. “This can’t be right, this can’t be right…” he murmured. “One cannot escape a locked coffin without aid…”

The house gave another lurch and cracks raced up the walls. “It’s going to come down! Follow me and save yourself!” I began to run, hoping beyond hope that Sherlock was behind me. Tossing a quick glance over my shoulder, I felt a hit of despair when I saw Sherlock still by the Ushers.

“Watson, there is no reasonable explanation in the world for which a sturdy estate could crumble into dust. I must find out how she escaped, how she survived…” 

I was close to the entrance hall. I paused there and took one last glance towards the tragic scene: the two siblings motionless on the floor, and Sherlock crouched beside them, trying in vain to come up with a logical explanation for what we were experiencing. One more lurch of the house, and I exited the dreadful building. I raced down the path and watched the twisted reflection of the house in the tarn. When I had reached a safe distance, I looked back at the house, praying that at any second Sherlock would come to his senses and burst out of that prison. I could see a fissure in the house-that same fissure I first noticed upon our arrival-widen and reach from top to bottom. With a cataclysmic boom, the house collapsed upon itself. I felt a wrenching heartache I had only known once before, three years ago upon the Reichenbach Falls. Would it be possible, I wondered, for him to have escaped what appeared to be a certain death? He had done it before. Yet this time, I felt as though there was no earthly way Holmes could get himself out of this scrape. That twinge of hope remained, but it was a dull twinge, a faint twinge. A twinge of hope nonetheless.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes this was homework. Yes this was the most fun I've had with an assignment in years. Staying under the 2000 word limit, however, was not as fun!


End file.
